Atlanta Runner Breaks Records, Breaks Barriers

Marcus Webb crosses the finish line of the Peachtree Road Race and the first thing he does is scan the crowd for his husband. It's become ritual. They lock eyes, both grinning, and Webb slows to a jog, catching his breath in the thick Atlanta heat. The time on his bib reads 28:14—a personal record for the 10K, and the fastest time posted by an openly gay runner in Georgia this year. It's July, and Webb is one of roughly 55,000 runners who'll toe the line for Atlanta's most iconic summer race. But his presence means something different now. Three years ago, when Webb first started running competitively, he was closeted. He trained alone, mostly before dawn, on routes through Inman Park and around Lake Clara Meer. He never talked about his personal life with the running clubs he'd join temporarily before quietly dropping out. The sport he loved felt incompatible with the person he was. "I'd see other runners, other athletes, and I'd think, 'They're living their actual lives," Webb recalls. "I was living a half-life in spandex." Today, Webb is the co-founder of Southbound Running, a club specifically organized around LGBTQ athletes in Atlanta. The group meets three times a week at different starting points across the city—one cluster near Grant Park, another in Midtown, a third rotating through neighborhoods south of downtown. What started as Webb and his husband running together in 2021 has grown to roughly 80 active members, ranging from ultra-marathoners to people training for their first 5K. The expansion reflects a quiet shift happening in Atlanta's athletic landscape. While outlets like The Advocate and Queerty often focus on pride festivals and nightlife, the real action for many LGBTQ Atlantans happens on the pavement at 6 a.m., in training groups that have nothing to do with partying and everything to do with showing up for each other. Southbound Running isn't revolutionary—running clubs exist everywhere. But in the South, where LGBTQ athletes have historically operated under a different set of constraints, the club's existence and growth matter. "I grew up in North Carolina," Webb says. "The message was always: keep it quiet, keep it separate. You can be gay, or you can be an athlete, but not both, not publicly." He moved to Atlanta in 2019, initially for a job in marketing. He didn't plan to run competitively. It started as stress relief, a way to process his identity after moving to a city where being openly gay felt, for the first time, genuinely unremarkable. Webb's marathon times have improved steadily. His fastest is 2:31:07, set last fall at the Atlanta Marathon. He's targeting a sub-2:25 in the next 18 months—a time that would qualify him for Boston. But the numbers, while impressive, aren't really what drives him anymore. What drives him is watching newer members of Southbound Running cross their own finish lines, often for the first time in their lives. Jasmine Torres, a 34-year-old trans woman who joined the group eight months ago, finished her first 10K in April. She'd never run before joining Southbound. "Marcus made it clear that this wasn't about pace or times," Torres says. "It was about showing up, being visible, being part of something." Webb's personal records have garnered local attention. He's been featured in a couple of Atlanta-based fitness publications, and he's been invited to speak at a few high schools about athletics and identity. But he's careful not to let himself become a symbol in a way that distances him from the actual work. Southbound Running's real achievement isn't Webb's times—it's the fact that a trans teenager from the suburbs can now show up to a running group and see themselves reflected in the people around them. "I don't want to be the gay runner who did the thing," Webb says flatly. "I want there to be so many of us that it stops being remarkable." The Peachtree Road Race, which Webb has now run six times, has become less about personal achievement and more about the collective. This year, Southbound Running organized a group entry. Roughly 30 members signed up, ranging in ability from competitive racers to joggers. They didn't all finish together—the pace spread was too wide—but they all wore matching shirts, custom-printed with the Southbound Running logo: a simple map of Georgia with a Pride flag overlaid. People noticed. Other runners asked about the group. A few asked for the Instagram handle. Webb is aware that visibility comes with complications. He's received messages from people who feel emboldened by his openness, but also messages from strangers questioning whether his times are "actually that good" or whether he's "just trying to make a statement." He's dealt with the weird dynamic of being fetishized by some corners of the LGBTQ community and dismissed by others who think athletics should be politics-free. None of it has stopped him from lacing up. What's changed, fundamentally, is that Webb no longer runs alone. He runs with his husband. He runs with Torres and with dozens of others who are figuring out what it means to take up space in a sport that's been historically hostile to queer people, especially in the South. He runs in a city where that's becoming increasingly possible, increasingly normal. The next Peachtree Road Race is a year away. Webb's already thinking about his goal time. But he's also thinking about how many more Southbound Running shirts they'll need to print.